


The Empty Hourglass

by halyo



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Confessions, I've said too much and now I must flee, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Tragedy, You Have Been Warned, angst of the "we're fighting on opposite sides of a war" kind, but spoiler: you know the "they meet again in the afterlife" trope?, no beta we die like Glenn, yeah that trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28488420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyo/pseuds/halyo
Summary: Caspar loves Ashe. The realisation comes through letters and chance meetings just a little too late. The die is cast; their fates are set. After five long years, war threatens to destroy them all.And on the battlefield, time runs out.Christmas present for vehicroids.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	The Empty Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vehicroids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehicroids/gifts).



> Self-indulgence for my best friend. Happy new year ✌

The letter finds its way to Caspar just after sunrise.

He’s out on the training ground bright and early. His shoulders and arms burn with the weight of his axe, the wooden posts surrounding him splintered and broken under the force of his assault. In the streets around him, the market vendors are starting to set up for the day, the soldiers of the Bergliez infantry mustering for their morning duties. Horses snort and pace at the cobbled stone beneath their hooves. It’s still early, but already the fort is bursting with life.

The sun hasn’t yet risen over the walls of Fort Merceus. But even in the shade Caspar is sweating under the oppressive heat of the Blue Sea Moon. The air is thick and muggy, making his already-damp shirt cling to his chest and his hair stick to his forehead while he trains. They’re in for another long, hot day, but there’s rain in the air and a shadow on the horizon. 

A storm is coming, one way or another.

The messenger calls to him across the courtyard, and Caspar shoulders his axe as he approaches. His stomach aches and his head is sore, although whether that’s the heat or the hangover, he’s not sure. He’s still burning through last night’s bad decisions: it was only once a year that his birthday came around, and his brother had made sure they celebrated in style. So far the war had been bloody, grim and brutal, and everyone had needed a good old-fashioned wild night of drink and debauchery. The party had started in the keep and moved out to the pubs around the town, but Caspar had been kicked out of the bar long before they’d made it out to the dives and whorehouses on the outskirts of the citadel. Some creep had been harassing the barmaid, and Caspar couldn’t just sit back and let that happen, not on his watch. After a few quick punches to the gut, Caspar had been quickly escorted from the premises, and that had been the end of that.

He wasn’t really planning on staying out any later anyway. Unlike his brother, he had no intention of buying his love.

Besides, Caspar’s time was put to better use on the training grounds. He’s been itching to get into the action ever since war broke out, but in recent times the Empire has been beaten back at every turn. Dimitri had come in from the cold, Edelgard had been pushed back to her seat in Enbarr, and Count Bergliez had been forced to send reinforcements to Fort Merceus. And if Caspar climbs to the highest watchtower and looks out to the horizon, he swears he can see the shadow of the Kingdom’s camp, of soldiers and scouts and supply trains.

He takes the envelope with a nod of thanks. The messenger mutters something about noble ingrates and respect, but by the time Caspar registers what the man has said, he’s gone.

It’s fine. Next time, Caspar will show the messenger some respect - with his fists.

The seal on the envelope is plain white wax. He was expecting a green seal, embossed with the signet of House Hevring or the crest of Cethleann - or maybe a simpler one hailing from what used to be Garreg Mach. As soon as the conflict had started, Linhardt had yielded his claim to Hevring and disappeared off to wherever offered scholastic sanctuary. Fhirdiad, at first, and when that had become too unstable, he’d wandered across Fódlan seeking out libraries and academies and places he could study (and nap) without fear of interruption. Conflict had never been his style, and true to form he’d disappeared far away from the fighting the minute war broke out.

At least, he _had,_ until the mercenary professor from their academy days had turned up at the monastery, and Linhardt had made Garreg Mach his home ever since. But wherever this letter had come from, it wasn’t the monastery. No, Caspar recognises the handwriting, and it certainly isn’t Linhardt’s near-illegible scrawl.

He doesn’t realise his hands are shaking until he rips the envelope wide open. He tosses the paper to the ground, slowly unfolding the letter within.

> **Caspar,**

The letter starts, and Caspar slams his axe into a training post. He sits down against a wall, shielding the paper from view - he’d only recently understood what Ashe meant by ‘knights’ tales’, and he’d been unable to read Ashe’s letters in public ever since.

He can practically hear Ashe’s voice narrating the letter, punctuated with that serious frown and bright smile.

> **Caspar,**
> 
> **This may be the last time we speak before battle, so I’ll keep it concise. I know we’ve talked about Edelgard in the past, and I know there is not much more I can say. So I will ask you one last time: please join His Highness in the fight against the Empire. At least lay down your axe and allow him to pass. Call off your troops. Yield the territory until the war is over. Perhaps he can work something out later, but we can’t bring justice to Fódlan while you stand in our way.**
> 
> **His Highness will not stop until Fort Merceus has been taken. Caspar, I am begging you. I can’t fight you. I can’t lose you. Together we can right the wrongs of this war and bring peace after all these years. Please think about this.**
> 
> **Whatever happens, I know I’ll see you soon.**
> 
> **All my love,**
> 
> **Ashe.**

Caspar scowls at the letter. 

What the hell does ‘concise’ mean?

Without a second thought, Caspar leaves his axe embedded in the post, wipes his sweaty face on his shirt, and hurries back to his quarters.

Jeritza stands in the main corridor of the keep, discussing strategy with Caspar’s brother and the senior generals stationed here. Caspar charges past without a thought, clipping a shoulder against the dark armour as he runs.

A hand jerks out and grabs Caspar by the collar of his shirt. Caspar chokes and comes slamming to an abrupt halt.

“Watch where you’re going, runt,” comes the growl from underneath that helmet, voice distorted beyond recognition. Sometimes Caspar forgets there’s a man encased all that armour. Not today, though: his blood boils at the challenge, and he shakes off the iron grip on his collar. He slides back into a fighting stance.

“Yeah?” Caspar challenges, sticking out his chest to try and appear larger than he actually is. “Fight me for real and we’ll see who the bigger man is. After lunch in the square. You and me. We’ll go a few rounds, unless you’re too cowardly to--”

“Silence, insect. You aren’t worth my time.”

“Hey!” Caspar yells, stamping his feet against the floor. The letter crumples with a _crunch_ as he makes a fist _,_ and his attention falls back to the paper in his hand. There are far more important things on his mind. “Whatever. If you’re brave enough to face me, you’ll--”

He cuts himself off. His father had stationed some of the Empire’s best generals at Fort Merceus, and they glare down on Caspar with expressions of disdain.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks, scornful. “I’ll fight every single one of you, and then you’ll be sorry.”

He turns on his heel and charges away.

His brother makes a comment beneath his breath, a low mutter of “Just like when we were boys.” Caspar doesn’t care too much: he darts straight up to his bedroom, pulling the drawers of his desk open to find what he needs. Paper, ink, envelope, wax. The cat asleep on his pillow cracks open one beady eye and yowls at the sudden disturbance. 

“What do you want, Mister?” he asks.

 _‘Mrow,’_ the cat replies.

Affectionate, Caspar sighs to himself, rocks back in the chair, and spends a minute or two scratching the soft fur behind its ears before kissing the top of its head and leaving it to sleep.

The cat purrs contentedly. Caspar makes sure he has everything he needs, then dips his pen into the ink. It leaves him with nothing to do but reply to Ashe’s letter. As much as he’s dreading this, it needs to be done.

Caspar puts pen to paper and starts to write.

> **Hey Ashe,**
> 
> **I know it’s been a while․ Sorry I didn’t write, but I’ve missed you real bad․ I wish this stupid dumb war never happened․** **You know I love a good fight, but this isn’t the same․** **I miss the academy when all we had to worry about was the cats stealing our dinner and the** ~~**ocasionnal** ~~ **occasional fight in town․ Never thought I’d miss homework, ha!**

Caspar puts down his pen, just for a moment. As much as he wants to go back to a simpler time, he’s not writing to reminisce about his school days. The days of charging about the monastery with Ashe are over. No longer are they sneaking out to look over the mountain lake, showing off their skills on the training grounds, or arguing over dinner before making up over dessert. A smile crosses his face as he remembers the time he and Ashe tried to light the fireplace with magic and ended up setting the spellbook on fire instead. 

All those memories seem so very long ago, times spent puzzling over homework or befriending the stray cats in the monastery. Simpler times. Better times.

But Caspar is writing to Ashe about something far more serious. He allows himself to sit and reminisce for a moment longer before pulling himself together again.

They’re not boys anymore: they’re men, and they’re at war.

He leans back in his chair, unsure how to write what needs to be said. Absentminded, he re-coats the nib in ink, strokes the cat again, and tries to find a way of writing down his answer without breaking Ashe’s heart.

> **You know I’m not big on the noble** ~~**shit** ~~ **stuff, but I got a duty to Bergliez and the** ~~**empire** ~~ **Adrestian Empire․ I can’t fight my family․ I don’t want to hurt you, Ashe, but even if I come with you, my brother won’t back down and nor will my dad, and I won’t betray them either․** ~~**I’m not scared of my dad or my brother or anyone!!!** ~~ **I could totally beat them in a fight, but I guess that’s not the point․ You made me realise that․ It’s not always about fighting․ It’s about doing what’s right, and I gotta protect the weak and the helpless in Fort Merceus․ There are** **innocent people here that don’t deserve to die cos Dimitri fell out with the** ~~**Empror** ~~ **Emperor․**
> 
> **Edelgard is gonna build a better world when she’s done, I know she will! And at least she’s not mad․ We both know what happens to Adrestian soldiers that fall into Dimitri’s hands․ He tortured Randolph to death for kicks, and he’ll do that to me too, Ashe․ I’m not a coward․ I’m not!!! But I’m not gonna spill** ~~**impereal** ~~ **imperial secrets either, and I don’t want to die like that․ I’m sorry there isn’t another way, but I’ll be defending my home․**
> 
> **Anyway, tell your sister I said hi! She’s the coolest little sis ever** **and tell her we can go another round when I see her again․ ~~Next time she’ll be bigger and stronger and I won’t go so easy on her!!!~~**
> 
> **Oh, and one more thing․ Remember to wear more armour when you go to fight this time! That tiny little** ~~**leather thingy??** **archery breastplate**~~ **chest guard won’t protect you from a sword or an axe or a magic fireball or whatever․ Archers are** ~~**easy to squish**~~ **vulnerable up close and weak to axes (see, I did learn SOMETHING at the academy!!!) and we sure got a lot of axes in the infantry․ Keep to the back lines and stay out of reach, and I’ll see you when this is all over․**
> 
> **Stay safe Ashe,**
> 
> **Caspar von Bergliez**

Caspar goes to seal the envelope, but a thought springs into his mind before he can stop it. He grabs another roll of paper and starts to draw, his pen scratching across the page. He slips the other piece of paper into the envelope, before sealing it with the signet in the desk and racing up to the aviary. He sends the fastest owl in the citadel. With a bit of luck the bird will actually reach the Kingdom camp before one of the Faerghus savages shoots it down for food.

Caspar watches the bird fly off across the fields of Bergliez and tightens both hands into fists. 

All he can do now is wait.

~.*.~

It could be their last night on earth.

They’re both probably breaking all kinds of unspoken rules to be here, but Caspar doesn’t give a fuck. That afternoon, imperial scouts had reported a small party of knights setting off from the Kingdom’s main camp, and just before dusk, Caspar’s brother had ridden out to meet them.

The Kingdom’s demands were simple: yield the territory and clear the path to Enbarr, and not a drop of blood need be spilt on Bergliez soil. Should they refuse, the Faerghus army will march upon the walls at dawn.

That had gone down about as well as expected.

No-one had ever breached the walls of Fort Merceus, not by might or magic. The only way to break them was to try and starve them all out. Dimitri didn’t have the patience for a siege, that much was clear. No, this is warfare of the ugliest, bloodiest, simplest kind. If the king wants to inflict violence, then violence it shall be.

And the men of Bergliez were very good at that.

Tensions are high in the citadel. The keep has been explosive of late, nobles and generals embroiled in a bitter spat about the tactics of the coming few days. Caspar has been removed from the room multiple times. He doesn’t see anything wrong with ‘brute force, brute force, and more brute force’, but the others had taken issue with it and kicked him out long before he could come to blows. It seems the youngest son of Bergliez had made a name for himself, and not in a good way.

The strange charge in the air hasn’t yet broken. The storm still rumbles on the horizon, hanging like a shadow over the Kingdom’s camp. The darkness is ever-present, the threat of things to come.

Caspar has never been one to listen to warnings.

He’s told Ashe where to meet and drawn a rough map to show the way. It’s fifty-fifty as to whether Ashe will show or not - he doesn’t share Caspar’s reckless streak, instead preferring caution and carefully-laid plans, just in case. Still, if anyone can get Ashe to do something stupid, it’s Caspar.

He prides himself on that, if nothing else.

As much as it goes against his nature, Caspar tries to keep a low profile as he sneaks out the citadel. A blue-haired man in Adrestian armour wouldn't raise eyebrows inside Fort Merceus, its walls standing strong and impenetrable as ever, but the fields of Bergliez are full of the king's men. If he's not careful, he'll end up with an arrow in his heart long before he reaches Ashe. So Caspar had changed into something a little more incognito, forfeited the armoured boots, cast off the giant pauldrons and left his axe back in his quarters. He'd kept his gauntlets and his chest piece, just in case, but he knows he won't need them. 

The guards let him out with a warning to watch his back and to return as soon as he can. They're at war, after all. Count Bergliez’s son or not, no man was safe.

Part of him feels self-conscious as he rides out to the river. Caspar knows he looks smaller without his armour, in both height and width. It's not the most befitting look for a warrior, for a general of the Adrestian Empire. But Ashe doesn't need a warrior or a general. He needs the scrawny, scruffy boy he remembers from the academy, the tiny runt of the litter that'd fight anything that moved.

More than anything else, he needs a shoulder to lean on. 

Caspar had been rehearsing what to say in his head on the ride up, but the minute he sees Ashe, whatever sensible thought he had goes straight out the window. He barely has time to drag the horse to a halt before he’s leaping out of the saddle, running over to Ashe and calling his name. Caspar grabs Ashe by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length and looking him over for a moment, taking in those freckles and wide green eyes. Ashe opens his mouth to speak but Caspar pulls him into a hug. It’s probably for the best that Caspar isn’t wearing all his armour: he squeezes Ashe tight enough to make him gasp, and holds him there for far too long. 

Caspar buries his face into Ashe’s shoulder.

“I missed you so bad,” he says stupidly, lifting Ashe off his feet and squeezing him until he chokes. As always, Ashe isn’t wearing anywhere _near_ enough armour. It takes Caspar far too long to realise his breastplate is pressing painfully into Ashe’s chest.

“Caspar--” Ashe manages, half-strangled, and Caspar lets him down gently. Still, Caspar keeps his arms tight around Ashe, holding him close.

“I got your letter.”

“I know.”

Affectionate, Caspar grabs a fistful of Ashe’s hair, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s been so long,” he murmurs, although in truth it had only been a couple of months. They’d exchanged letters, of course, but it was so different seeing each other in the flesh. He’d missed the softness of Ashe’s coat, the little sniffle of his breathing, the smell of freshly-cut grass and the wax he uses to keep his bow in good condition. His voice is the same as it always is: soft and full of hope, such an old soul in the body of a young man.

Ashe is still clasping the crudely-drawn map in one hand, and as Caspar lets him go, he slides the paper back into the pocket of his coat. He tries small talk, but neither of them are particularly good at pleasantries. Caspar is too focussed, too crude; Ashe is too anxious.

The tension returns. Suddenly Caspar clenches his jaw, aware of the strange ringing in the air. They both came here for a reason, and now they’re having to face their decision.

Ashe goes to speak, and Caspar’s blood runs cold.

“Did-- ah. Did you have an answer, Caspar? Did you think about what I said?”

The nerves settle into a pit in his stomach.

His breath hitches. 

For the longest time there’s only silence, interrupted by the murmur of the river behind them. The air is electric. Caspar isn’t sure whether the tension is from the storm or the topic at hand.

“I can’t,” he says eventually, probably the quietest he’s been all year. “I can’t leave Fort Merceus. It’s my home. I gotta protect the innocent people in it. Besides, my brother’s gonna kill me if I run away. And if he won’t, my dad will.”

“His Highness will kill you regardless,” Ashs counters. “Both of you. _All_ of you.”

Caspar scowls. He cracks his knuckles, a feat made all the more impressive by the gauntlets he wears. “Dimitri hasn’t come up against a _real_ Bergliez yet. He won’t take me down so easy!”

Ashe bites back a comment. Whatever it is he was about to say never falls on Caspar’s ears. 

“What?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious. “I can fight! I’m the son of Wilhelm von Bergliez - I was _born_ to fight. You don’t need to worry. I’ll show the rat king what a big mistake it was to come here and--”

“His Highness-- _Dimitri_ \-- is my friend, Caspar.” Ashe’s face falls, and Caspar’s enthusiasm dies with it.

It might not be the mad king he meets on the battlefield, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Caspar whispers. At least, it’s as quiet as he can go before his voice cuts out entirely. It’s still loud enough to startle the birds overhead. “How’s the family?” he asks, and Ashe just shakes his head. The smile that breaks through is strained, but Caspar’s heart leaps at the sight. It’s the least he can do to take Ashe’s mind off their fate.

There’s a soft glow to Ashe’s cheeks as he talks. “Ah! You know Seres. She’s-- well, she’s still herself. And Luca’s hiding away with a book, so there’s not much to report on that front. They’re fine, really, both of them. I suppose your brother is well?”

Caspar snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Enough about him, though. You getting enough sleep?”

The minute he says it, he realises his mistake. Ashe looks tired, paler than usual even under the setting sun of the Blue Sea Moon. Concern tugs at Caspar’s heart. Was Dimitri working him too hard? Was he fretting over every man in his care? Both are likely true, but there’s a much simpler explanation to all this.

The young Lord Gaspard was not built for war. His heart is too kind, his smile too bright. Despite all the hardship he’s endured, he remains a staunch optimist, determined to see things through. The Goddess is cruel to bring him out here, where the fighting is fierce and the bloodshed is impossible to avoid. There’s blood stained into the bottom of Ashe’s coat, dark in the dying light. Caspar pretends not to notice.

Ashe’s skill with a bow makes him nigh as dammit irreplaceable to the king. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

“Of course I’m getting enough sleep,” Ashe says, but the bags under his eyes say otherwise. “And you say _I’m_ the one that worries too much.”

“You do!” Caspar protests. “Someone’s gotta get you to loosen up a little. Can’t spend all the time worrying. Sometimes you just gotta fight it out and call it a day.”

There’s a wide grin on Ashe’s face as he shakes his head in exasperation. “Only you would say that, Caspar.”

It’s strange how they ended up friends. Two very different people from very different walks of life, brought together by their differing views of justice and mutual love of cats. Time after time Caspar had offered to show Ashe how to get the best out of an axe, while Ashe had tried - and failed - to coax any skill with a bow from Caspar’s clumsy hands. It’s not like they’d made a promise at the Goddess tower or anything like that - at least, Caspar hadn’t, anyway - but fate kept bringing them back together again, whether a chance meeting in the newly-occupied Rowe or finding themselves in adjacent rooms in an inn, and now camped outside Fort Merceus with the threat of annihilation hanging over their heads.

Caspar wishes things could have been different. What a story he and Ashe could have told together.

“I’m so glad we became friends at the academy,” Caspar blurts out, suddenly wide-eyed and serious. “I’m glad you kept writing. I’m glad we met in Rowe, and then again in that inn on the border. I’m glad you’re here, Ashe.”

Because if this is to be their last night on earth, there’s no-one Caspar would want to spend it with more.

Ashe lifts his palm, as if going for a handshake. His hand freezes in mid air, then drops back to his side again. “I think--” he starts, then seems to choke on his own words. Ashe swallows, and Caspar takes a step back. But Ashe shakes his head, reaching for Caspar’s hand again. “I love-- ah. You know. I love-- I love spending time together. With you. I love that. Being with you.”

“Me too,” Caspar replies, the words falling out before he knows what he’s saying. He’s oddly nervous about it all, his stomach full of butterflies and his head full of cotton wool. His sentences are short and broken. “We should do something. Together. When all of this is over. Go travelling or something, like I always wanted. See the world, right wrongs, fight injustice together. But that’s not what you-- I mean, you wanted to reopen that restaurant, didn’t you? I guess maybe I could come see you or-- or something. Unless you wanna come with me? Maybe you can do the restaurant stuff after. But you don’t-- you should come. With me. Or you could-- yeah.”

He grabs Ashe’s hand and squeezes it tight.

Caspar scratches at the back of his head and eventually bites his tongue. What was it about Ashe that made him talk in circles? Of course Caspar doesn’t know. Were he talking to a pretty girl, he might have put two and two together. 

But he isn’t, so he doesn’t.

Instead, Caspar lets his hands drop to his sides. He swings them forward and back, clenching his right hand into a fist, then his left. No matter what he does, nothing quite feels right, nothing makes the tension inside him go away.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, taking Ashe by the wrists. “Not-- not in a weird way. Not like that. I just wanna--”

Caspar realises far too slowly that he’s still wearing his gauntlets. All Ashe is going to feel is cold steel. So Caspar drops his hands, unbuckling the straps that hold his armour in place. The left gauntlet comes off no problem, but the buckle gets stuck on his right hand, the new leather stiff and unyielding. He yanks at the buckle to no avail. If he just pulls it hard enough--

Ashe rests his hands against Caspar’s. Just that simple motion is enough for Caspar to fall still, for his struggles to fall away. The archery gloves are already off, tucked into a pocket, leaving Ashe’s hands free. After a few small motions - finesse, rather than brute force - he finally releases the gauntlet, which clatters to the ground. Caspar tugs off his own gloves, then rests his hands against Ashe’s. Gently, Ashe places Caspar’s hands up against his cheeks, holding the touch and letting his eyes shut, just for a moment. He lets out an unsteady breath.

Caspar knows that look on Ashe’s face. There’s something on his mind, but Caspar will never find out what. Instead he stands there with a stupid expression on his face, cupping Ashe’s face in his palms.

Why does this have to be so damn _complicated?_

He opens his mouth to speak, but an instinct buried deep inside him stops him from saying anything. Caspar presses his lips together and stays silent. He’s always preferred to let his fists do the talking, but perhaps, just this once, he’ll let his fingertips work instead.

Callused fingers trace against Ashe’s freckles, down his jaw, both thumbs coming to rest just below his lips. “Is this weird?” Caspar asks, then lets out a snort of nervous laughter.

His hands don’t leave Ashe’s face.

Ashe just stares for a second, then smiles in time to Caspar’s laugh. “No,” Ashe replies, both cheeks so red the freckles are barely visible over the blush. “No,” he says again, “I don’t think it’s weird at all.”

Slowly, carefully, Ashe trails his hands over Caspar’s shoulders, then rests both palms flat against his chest. As if in reply, Caspar’s hands slide down from Ashe’s cheeks, clasping either side of his neck, thumbs just underneath his chin. For someone as strong as Caspar, he’s strangely gentle, every touch light as a feather. Ashe isn’t a delicate glass doll that could break at any time, but to Caspar, it certainly feels that way. Sure, Ashe could draw a bow that holds as much force as any sword, and he was handy with an axe if things got that bad. But time after time Caspar has proven that he doesn’t know his own strength - or rather, he doesn’t know when to use it. The last thing he’d ever want to do is to hurt Ashe.

Which brings them back to square one all over again. Tomorrow they face each other on the field of battle. Ashe has made it very clear that he intends to stay by Dimitri’s side. Caspar has promised to protect his home until his dying breath.

He doesn’t see a way out of this one.

Resigned, he places his forehead against Ashe’s again, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of his breathing. In and out, in and out again, accompanied by the rustle of leaves and a nightjar’s song as dusk turns to darkness. Ashe’s body has a gentle warmth to it, Caspar’s fingers cocooned snugly between Ashe’s skin and his hood.

“I wish things were different,” Ashe mutters. “I wish we didn’t have to choose between duty and-- well, and--”

“And friendship,” Caspar finishes. His grip tightens on Ashe. He doesn’t want to let go. “You’re like a brother to me,” he adds, trying to stifle the emotion in there. “More than a brother. Not that you’ve met my brother, but-- you know. I guess you’re like-- like the little brother I always wanted. Someone I can travel with, and drink with, and look after. Someone I can fight for.”

Ashe chuckles. There’s something almost mournful about it. “You know I can take care of myself.”

Heat rushes to Caspar’s face, and he shrugs it off. “Yeah,” he whispers, reaching up with one hand to sweep Ashe’s hair aside and brush a thumb over his cheek. Green eyes stare up at Caspar, the soft green of leaf-buds in the spring. “I know you can. But-- I dunno. There’s just _something_ about you that-- I don’t know.”

“I know what you mean,” Ashe says. He licks his lips, then bites down on the lower one, nervous. “There’s just _something._ I can’t explain it, but I know what it is.”

He smiles to himself, but his hands are trembling like autumn leaves in the breeze. A shaft of moonlight peeks through the trees, their hands warm against the oncoming darkness. Caspar shifts gently, guiding Ashe just that little bit closer.

Just like in the knights’ tales.

Ashe leans in. Caspar pulls back.

“I gotta go,” he says quietly, letting his hands slide down Ashe’s chest and back to his side again. He scoops up both gauntlets and fixes them back in place. “You should too, before it gets too dark to find your way back.”

They’re way beyond that point. Twilight has been and gone. The forest is too dark to see much, the details of Ashe’s pale face lost in the shadows. The moon shines down between the leaves, bathing them both in a serene silver glow, and Ashe’s eyes shine as he looks back to Caspar. 

He scratches the back of his head again, nervous. “You don’t-- ah. You don’t know a magic spell or anything?” An orb of magic - or whatever that stuff was - to light the way might be useful right now, but neither of them could light a match, let along a guiding light. Still, Caspar knows the trails through the forest. He’ll get them back safe and sound.

He whistles his horse over, grabs it by the reins, and hauls himself up into the saddle.

They’re both quiet as they ride back to the edge of the forest. Too quiet. They’ve run out of things to say. Or rather, they both have things to say, but no way of putting it into words. Absentminded, Caspar’s thoughts race by, the very real possibility of facing Ashe on the battlefield making his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach and then even further still. The cold feeling of dread makes him feel sick.

He can’t kill Ashe. He can’t even raise his axe against him. All he wants is for this war to be over, and then he can go back to fighting brigands in seedy bars and bringing justice wherever he goes, to travelling Fódlan and beyond in search of his next great adventure.

He wants all of that, sure. But more than anything else, he wants Ashe by his side and watching his back. He wants that feeling of settling down in a brand new room, of good food and even better company. He wants someone to get into trouble with, and back out of trouble again. He wants that joyous smile, as rare and precious as gold.

It doesn’t take someone of Linhardt’s genius intellect to work out what Caspar really wants. There is one constant in all of this, the uniting theme in whatever future he plans out for himself. Whether it’s travelling the world or staying in Bergliez, settling down in Gaspard with a couple of cats or heading out across a vast and stormy sea, one thing is always the same no matter what.

What he wants is Ashe.

Fuck.

No.

Caspar shakes his head. No. _No._ He is not having this conversation with himself. He shoves the thought down somewhere it won’t see the light of day, where the dull ache of heartbreak won’t hurt as much as it does.

This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

There are no words for the relief he feels as the horses trot up to the treeline, as forest cedes to agricultural fields. Good. Now he can stop thinking about _that_ and move onto something else, literally anything else. His axe needs sharpening and his armour needs polishing and he’ll probably have to rally the troops, and--

“Thank you,” Ashe says, cutting straight through Caspar’s jumbled thoughts. His voice is thick with emotion, his eyes wide and his expression lined with sorrow. Just the sight of it makes Caspar’s heart jolt in his chest.

“Anytime,” he replies stupidly.

“May the Goddess protect you,” Ashe adds. There’s a noise that sounds almost like a sob, but he holds himself together, head held high. His eyes glisten in the moonlight. “Be safe out there, Caspar.”

“Yeah, you too. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Caspar says, raising his fist in promise. He looks at Ashe one last time, taking in every little detail he can commit to memory: the creases in his coat, the freckles scattered over his cheeks, the serious expression on his face even now. Some things never change.

Perhaps if they were standing on the ground instead of sat atop their horses, Caspar would have taken Ashe’s face in his hands again and held their bodies so close together that he loses track of what is him and what is Ashe. Guilty, Caspar stares at the ground, letting his mind wander to the things he might have said, the way their hands might have entwined, the parting gift he might have left against Ashe’s lips.

But before Ashe can reply, Caspar turns the horse and spurs it back towards Fort Merceus.

He daren’t look back.

~.*.~

The sons of Bergliez stand upon the walls of Fort Merceus and watch the army amassing below.

Blue banners flutter in the morning wind. Slowly but surely, the kingdom forces are moving in. The Knights of Seiros fly their pennant, the infantry centred under the crest of Blaiddyd. There are other crests, too, symbols and shapes he recognises from his academy days, but the names evade him. He should have paid more attention in class. He should have tried to fight Edelgard before she declared war. He should have done a lot of things, really, but the time for regrets is over. Now, the only crest that matters is the one of Saint Macuil, the symbol painted on the banners hanging from the walls of the citadel, the symbol that adorns the front of his brother’s breastplate.

Neither of them are wearing helmets. It’s customary for both war monk and war master to wear them, but the bright blue of Bergliez acts as a rallying cry to the troops, a focal point among the fighting. The men know their orders come from here, and only need to look for Whilhelm’s sons to find their plan of attack. Caspar and his brother will stand out in the crowd. That much is certain.

It also paints a target on their heads. 

Caspar isn’t worried: he can take on anyone and anything. Still, part of him wishes he at least had _something_ more to protect him, just in case.

“You think we might be on the wrong side?” Caspar asks quietly, bouncing on his toes. He’d thought a good night’s sleep and a few hours would have dispelled those doubts, but he’d barely slept, and those nagging fears remained no matter what, like a stubborn red wine stain on a favourite shirt. Ashe’s words stick with him still. Try as he might, he can’t strike the idea from his mind. “What if _we’re_ the bad guys?”

“Far as I can see, we’re the ones defending our home from invasion,” Alvard replies, with none of his brother’s uncertainty. 

Caspar scowls at the thought. “But Edelgard invaded Faerghus first--”

“No need to complicate it.”

A few feet ahead of them, Jeritza stands at the edge of the wall, ranting about death and combat. Caspar is sure his speech is delightful, but the man clearly has a few screws loose, and the horned skull of his helmet makes that feeling of unease hit him all over again.

No good guy ever allied with a man called ‘The Death Knight’.

“Shut up,” Caspar calls, but it falls on deaf ears.

They’re in no place to talk morality. He’s picked his side. No matter what optimism Ashe had held out on, there’s no going back now. Even if he wanted to back down, he couldn’t. The die is cast: their fates are set.

Caspar sneaks a look back at his childhood home, at the streets he used to roam freely and the towers he used to climb. “If we lose this, Dad is gonna kill us,” he whispers, but Alvard stiffens at the mention of their father.

“If we lose this, I don’t think we’re gonna have to worry about Dad.”

Critical, Caspar puts a hand on his hip. “Did you write to him?”

“Yeah.”

“You hear back?”

“No.”

“Anything from mum?”

Alvard snorts with laughter. “Yeah, she told me to get a good night’s sleep and to stop bullying my baby brother.”

“I’m not a baby.” Caspar folds his arms over his chest. “I’m twenty-two!”

“Whiny little crybaby.” Alvard ruffles his brother’s hair, partly affectionate, partly mocking.

Caspar scowls in reply. “If we win, I’m gonna fight you for real, and then I’ll show you who the real crybaby is.”

“ _When_ we win.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t share his brother’s hope. His attention is instead on the archers bringing up the rear of the Kingdom’s forces, searching the ranks for a familiar face. This high up, he can’t make out the faces, but he’s sure Ashe is down there. Part of Caspar wants to make sure he’s safe. Part of him doesn’t want to see Ashe down there at all. Sure, there are plenty of grey-haired archers, but most of those are too old, too tall, too broad. Try as Caspar might, he can’t see Ashe.

In fact, he can’t see _anyone_ he recognises. The redhead at the head of the cavalry is absent, as is the tiny woman that usually leads the Faerghus mages. The skies are empty: not a falcon knight or a pegasus in sight. The man at the head of the army isn’t the king nor his mountain of a bodyguard, not even the little bitch of a duke.

“Mercedes,” Jeritza hisses, staring down at the army. “Fate draws us together. Yet still you elude me. Show yourself, sister of mine.”

He’s right. As far as Caspar can see, not a single one of the old Blue Lions class is present. Not even the professor dares to show their face.

“Maybe they’ve gone back to Garreg Mach,” Caspar offers, somewhat unhelpfully. “Keep the nobles safe away from the front lines like the cowards they are. A real man would come out and fight, but not these guys. Guess they saw the walls of Fort Merceus and got scared off, huh? Always knew the Bergliez reputation would be too much for them.”

He makes a fist and flexes his bicep, biting against his bottom lip and pulling a face at his brother, who ignores him.

Minutes pass.

Caspar isn’t sure what they’re waiting for. The call to battle, the blare of a hunting horn, the first volley of arrows. Perhaps the man at the head of the army will push his troops forward, but for now, it seems, the Kingdom is content to wait. Whatever it is, it doesn’t come.

The silence is unbearable. The tension in the air still hasn’t broken: the storm rumbles on the horizon, a feeling of dread hanging low and ominous in the air. The feeling makes the tiny hairs at the back of Caspar’s neck stand on end, and he touches one gloved finger to the cutting edge of his axe, just to check.

Time stretches into eternity. The minutes turn to hours.

At least, it feels that way. Caspar stretches his shoulders, tests his axe again, paces the walls. He’s antsy, itching to get into the fight.

“Why is this taking so _long?_ ” he asks, stamping impatiently at the floor. “Come _on._ I just wanna fight already!”

One of the generals holds up her hand. “Patience, Caspar. Do not wish for bloodshed.”

He scowls. “So, what, we’re just gonna stand up here until the Kingdom decides to do something? Why can’t we set the mages on them? What about the archers? We can’t just stand back and--”

“Breach!”

The shout comes from below, and Caspar’s blood turns to ice. His hand tightens around his axe.

That’s not possible.

“Breach!” again, the messenger screaming at the top of her lungs. “Kingdom soldiers! The gates have opened, the walls are breached!”

“Impossible--” Alvard starts, but a hail of arrows darken the sky, and both he and Caspar duck for cover behind the parapet. Ahead of them all, Jeritza stands and laughs, the arrows ricocheting harmlessly off his armour.

“To battle?” Caspar asks, and his brother nods. He grins, but it’s more nervous than anything else. “Finally, some action!”

The instant the deluge of arrows ease up, Caspar grabs his axe and charges down the steps of the city walls to the streets below. He roars as he leaps down into the streets, his fear drowned out by righteous fury. A swing of his axe carves a cavalryman’s skull clean open. He rides the momentum down, landing with a jolt. An arrow ricochets off his armour, and he rings his gauntlet up to block a sword. Caspar kicks the soldier in the stomach, and as the man stumbles to recover, Caspar’s axe cleaves his chest in two.

Another scream. Another roar. Caspar calls for his men, but the infantry are scattered, their meticulously thought-out plan already in ruins. Everywhere he looks, he’s surrounded by blue banners and blue coats. Horses charge through the streets. The air is filled with the sound of screams.

Somewhere, the mad king screams for his men to tear the Adrestians limb from limb. 

Caspar glances up just for a moment, ducking an arrow and fending off a soldier’s lance. The king is in the centre of the courtyard, with the professor at his right hand and his bodyguard at his left. Caspar charges through the fighting. Another arrow hits his pauldron, but is cast harmlessly aside. He hacks and screams his way into the courtyard, calling for any imperial troops to fall to his side. The armoured knights are quickly dealt with by a small pack of Adrestian mages, Caspar taking out a horse, then its rider, as he battles towards Dimitri.

One of Caspar’s men falls to the ground with an arrow to the eye.

They push on.

Another arrow, this time hitting a young mage, who’s dead before she hits the floor. Caspar dares to glance back. It’s the same again: an arrow stuck clean through the eye, no fluke but instead the expert aim of a master sniper.

Soft grey feathers. Light cedarwood stem, native to Gaspard.

Caspar shakes off the thought, instead raising his axe and trying to fight his way through. He swings the blade around his head, splattering his armour with blood and gore, hacking his path through the crowd towards Dimitri.

Another imperial soldier falls. And another.

He follows the direction of the arrow back to its source. In the buildings up there, somewhere, is a sniper looking out for his king. Caspar stares for a second too long: a lance strikes him square in the chest, and he reels back, winded. With a howl, he brings down his axe, then follows up with a sharp blow to the face.

Desperate, he glances up again, and this time something does catch his eye.

A shadow stands in an upstairs window. They duck in and out of view, hovering for just a moment before disappearing again to reload.

The mages have most likely already dealt with the Kingdom’s archers. But there’s one man that wasn’t among the archers, someone holding the back line and protecting his friends.

Caspar doesn’t think. He puts his head down and runs.

He uses his axe to part the crowd, either jostling fighters to the side or carving his way through the blue-robed mages he encounters. He barges down the door to the restaurant with his shoulder, and the wood splinters beneath him. Frantic, he charges through the building until he finds the staircase at the back: one flight, two, and then he’s at the top of the stairs, pacing down the hall.

His armour makes enough noise that he can’t sneak up on his target, but that had never been the plan. Caspar doesn’t _sneak._ And he certainly doesn’t have anything to hide, not anymore.

It was only going to be one person.

There’s a figure silhouetted in the window, using the jamb for cover. His quiver is a quarter empty already, the shape of his body hidden by a long, blue coat padded with thick fur. His hood is up, obscuring his face from view, but Caspar knows the man underneath.

Who else?

Caspar lowers his axe.

Ashe doesn’t even have to turn around. “I knew we’d find each other,” he says, drawing his bow and releasing another arrow into the chaos below. A scream rings out, muffled under the whinnies of horses and roar of mages and the _clang_ of weapons against heavy armour. One more death amongst a thousand others.

Ashe doesn’t miss.

Slowly, he turns to face Caspar, who swallows the fear in his throat. Less than a day ago they were conversing as old friends, and now here they are. Caspar shivers at the thought. Those old feelings are starting to stir inside him, the strange, treacherous thoughts that make bile rise in his throat.

“I won’t fight you,” he says, but his hand stays firmly wrapped around the haft of his axe. The sounds of the fighting fall away. He barely feels the heady warmth of the Blue Sea Moon. All he sees is Ashe.

“You don’t have to,” Ashe replies. His arrow is pointed at the floor, but it’d only take half a second to raise his bow again. Caspar wonders if his armour would stop that arrow. It’s protected him from archers before, but not at this range. There’s enough force in that bow that the arrowhead could pierce straight through Caspar’s armour before he’s even had time to raise his axe.

“Put down your bow,” he commands. As much as he tries to push down his emotions, they rise to the surface again, bubbling up from within and closing up his throat.

“Caspar--”

He raises his axe. “Put down your bow!”

A strangled scream sounds from outside, and Ashe rushes to the window again. His bow is drawn and the arrow is fired before Caspar can react.

“Hey!” he roars, grabbing Ashe by the arm and pushing him against the wall. “I told you to put it down.”

“Let me go,” Ashe warns.

“Or what?”

Caspar lifts his axe, just for a moment, and the fear that fills Ashe’s eyes makes his heart skip a beat. Shaky, he releases Ashe’s arm, but Ashe’s attention isn’t on him anymore. No, it’s on the fighting below, on a redhead in dark riding armour and a black horse stuck with arrows.

As a precaution, Caspar lays a hand on Ashe’s bow, keeping it pointed at the floor.

“Let me go,” Ashe says again, but it’s more of a plea this time, with none of his previous anger. “Just let me help him.”

“I can’t.”

“Caspar, please--”

Caspar glances out the window. The horse has fallen, the rider backed against a wall. He’s brandishing his lance to try and keep the infantry back, but the Adrestian mages are closing in.

“Sylvain,” Ashe whispers, eyes wide with dread. He’s already moving, brushing Caspar’s hand aside and making his way to the exit. “I have to save him. He’s my friend, Caspar, I can’t just--”

Caspar races to the doorway before Ashe can get there. He plants his feet in a fighting stance.

“No. You’re not getting past me.” There’s a warning in his voice. If he lets Ashe go, well, he’s much faster than Caspar. There’s no telling where Ashe will go or what he’ll do - or who he’ll kill - if Caspar lets him free.

He’s not taking that risk.

Ashe screams in frustration. “Caspar please, for once in your life, just _think!_ ” he shouts, desperation clear on his face. Anger flares in Caspar’s chest, hot and fierce, but he tries to dampen it. Still, his temper isn’t so easily sated. The only thing keeping him in check is the fear etched into Ashe’s expression, the sheer terror in his eyes.

Caspar can’t help but scowl.

“I am thinking,” he says.

“Then please, let me leave--”

“No.”

“What if it was Linhardt out there?” Ashe yells, half-scream, half-sob. “What if it was Petra or Ferdinand or Bernadetta? You’d go to help them. You’d do the same--”

“They’re dead, Ashe. They’re all dead.”

“I’m sorry, Caspar, I really am. But you can’t stop me from protecting my friends.”

“Watch me.”

“I have to-- I can’t--”

Caspar scowls. “Surrender. Go up to the keep and hand in your bow. Tell them I sent you, they’ll take my word--”

“I don’t want to fight you, Caspar.”

His hand tightens around his axe. “I don’t want to fight you either, Ashe, but this--”

“Please!” Ashe screams, voice hoarse as the emotion bleeds in. “Please, Caspar, they’re my friends, let me help them--”

“I can’t,” Caspar whispers. “They’ll kill you.”

“Then I go to my death, I don’t care--”

Caspar charges Ashe, knocking the bow from his hand and tackling him to the floor. He wraps his arms around Ashe, pinning him down, but Ashe is fast, and he’s picked up a thing or two since their days at the academy. He struggles for a moment, before letting Caspar’s own strength get the better of him and using that momentum to push Caspar down.

Ashe rolls over until he’s on top, straddling Caspar’s hips.

With a hiss of pain, Caspar grabs Ashe by the throat, but his hand instinctively releases the moment he makes contact. He can’t fight Ashe. He physically _can’t_ hurt him, no matter how hard he tries. The best he can do is a sharp jab to Ashe’s stomach, and Ashe gasps as the wind is knocked from him. Caspar writhes like a demon. Still Ashe doesn’t relent.

“Stay down,” he begs. “Please, Caspar, stay down.” 

“You can’t-- make me-- _hng._ ” Caspar grits his teeth and reaches for his axe. It’s just out of reach. He jabs Ashe in the chest. Ashe flinches, and Caspar slams his palm into Ashe’s elbow. His hold buckles, his weight going out from underneath him. Caspar tries to get the upper hand, but having Ashe pressed against his chest makes all sensible thought go out of his head.

He wraps his arms around Ashe, who has also gone strangely still.

“I love you,” he says stupidly, the words falling out like a tonne of bricks.

Silence falls.

For a moment they both freeze, still processing his words. Caspar’s heart is racing a mile a minute.

Ashe sits up, propping himself up on his hands and staring down at Caspar. “Did you mean that?” he asks, tears welling in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Caspar says stupidly. The feelings are all spilling over, now, running out with every word he says. “I didn’t realise, not-- not until last night, when we were stood under the trees and I thought-- you know, that whatever happens to us after the war, I want us to be together. Like, you and me, for real, and we can travel and-- yeah. Of course I meant it. Unless you don’t--”

Ashe smiles, a heady smile of relief and unbridled joy. “I love you too, Caspar. I thought you’d never see it. But maybe--”

Nervous, he leans down to Caspar’s level, stroking the side of his face and tilting his chin up. Caspar sits his hands on Ashe’s hips in turn, staring up into Ashe’s eyes, suddenly bright all over again. The tiredness seems to wash away, all those late nights forgotten.

Ashe presses his chest to Caspar’s and brushes their lips together--

“Caspar!”

It’s not Ashe.

Footsteps charge up the stairs and into the room. Ashe turns and reaches for an arrow, but he’s too late.

There’s a familiar roar of fury and a streak of Adrestian steel. A scream, high and piercing. A splatter of blood.

Ashe’s body collapses onto Caspar. 

Someone is screaming. It could be either of them, Caspar doesn’t know. His head is full of noise, eyes wide, mind reeling with what’s just happened.

“Caspar!” comes the shout, and then Ashe is hauled unceremoniously away, a familiar hand dragging Caspar up by the collar and checking him over. “Caspar,” Alvard says again, looking for injuries. “Did he-- are you hurt? Caspar?”

Already Caspar can feel the familiar warmth of faith magic, but he bats his brother’s efforts aside. He sits up, then reaches for Ashe, rolling his limp body onto his back. The blue of his coat is already soaked through with blood, torn from shoulder to hip in the shape of an axe blade.

He should have worn more armour.

Ashe screams, and Caspar’s heart twists into a knot. He’s alive - but for how long, Caspar doesn’t know.

“Ashe?” he asks, slipping his hand into Ashe’s. “Ashe, hey, listen to me, we gotta--” Caspar’s words are choked from his throat by the iron grip of his brother. He roars, not even words, just an animalistic cry of fury and pain. “You did this!” he screams, kicking Alvard back and staggering up to his feet. “You _fucker_ \--”

Alvard takes a step back, then another. “Caspar, what the fuck--”

Caspar grabs his brother by the throat and shoves him out the window.

Glass shatters around them. Caspar doesn’t even stay to see if his brother survived the fall or not: he’s right back at Ashe’s side, sliding across the floor on his knees. “Ashe,” he calls, reaching for Ashe’s hand again and holding tight. Ashe stirs, but his eyes are glazed over. “Ashe, please-- hey. Ashe, you-- you still awake?”

“I--” he starts, but tears well in his eyes and he whines in pain again, gripping onto Caspar’s hand so hard it hurts. “Caspar,” Ashe murmurs, then shakes all over as a convulsion runs down his body. His eyes widen even further, a deer in a hunter’s sights.

Caspar grips his hand right back. “Ashe-- Ashe, hey, listen. Ashe, you gotta--”

“I can’t feel my legs.”

Both of them fall silent. Dread hits like a midwinter frost, and Caspar’s heart turns to stone.

“Don’t say that,” he chokes, looking down at Ashe. A growing pool of blood surrounds him, coat saturated with a red-brown stain. Like this, there’s nothing Caspar can do. “I’m gonna-- I’ll get you to a mage. Or a priest. Or something. They’ll fix you right up-- yeah?”

“Mercedes,” Ashe whispers. He tries to keep it solemn and dignified, but there’s nothing dignified about the whine that escapes him again, even through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Caspar says, like he knows anything about healing. The wound is on Ashe’s back. Caspar only saw it for a moment, but it was long, and it was deep. That means Ashe can’t move, even if he wanted to.

“You should go,” Ashe says, struggling to raise a hand to Caspar’s face. He doesn’t even get that far, instead clutching at Caspar’s collar. “Go. Be safe. Leave--”

“I gotta get you outta here,” Caspar decides, looking over the carnage. He gathers Ashe’s body up in his arms as gently as he can manage. Ashe bites back a scream, which Caspar can only hope is a good sign. As soon as he lifts Ashe, though, the scream comes again, louder this time. Ashe shakes in his arms, clutching onto Caspar’s coat for dear life. But this isn’t going to work: his armour is only holding him down. He’ll be slowed under the combined weight of Ashe and his armour, and the chest piece juts out awkwardly, making it impossible to hold Ashe for long.

He can’t help Ashe like this.

Part of him regrets pushing the closest healer through a window, but that’s neither here nor there.

Caspar lets Ashe down gently, then works on removing the worst of his armour. After a few seconds of struggle, his chest piece falls to the floor, and his pauldrons a few seconds later. He lifts Ashe again, drowning out the scream. This time he can hold Ashe close, cradled like a baby against his chest as he carries Ashe down the stairs, then out into the courtyard. The king seems to have moved on, but still there are scattered pockets of fighting here and there. The imperial soldiers are calling out for reinforcements, begging for aid.

Caspar wants to help, more than anything else. But the weight shifting in his arms is far more important, the low moans of pain as Ashe clings onto life. There’s no time for softness: Caspar sets a brisk pace as he heads towards the Adrestian mages. Any faster and he’ll trip under the weight. Any slower and Ashe might not make it.

Blood seeps into his coat. He tries not to think too hard about it.

“Gonna be alright, Ashe,” he murmurs, but he daren’t look down. Ashe is still shivering, his hands deathly cold against Caspar’s skin. Desperate, he looks for a healer, but there’s no sign of them.

That awful tension still hangs in the air, worse than before.

Where _is_ everyone?

He carries Ashe through the streets towards the sound of the fighting, heading up to the keep. Ashe shifts weakly in his arms, but the screaming has stopped. Caspar’s sleeves are soaked with blood, but he can’t give up now. There’ll be a way to save him. There has to be--

Softly, Ashe coughs into Caspar’s chest. Blood bubbles between his lips, and Caspar’s heart sinks. Terrified, he calls to one of the generals, yelling above the conflict. “Where are our mages?”

“Scattered or dead! Retreat to the keep, and--”

A distorted, metallic roar echoes through the streets as Jeritza falls, and Fort Merceus with him.

They have to get out of here.

Caspar charges back to the keep as fast as his legs will take him. It isn’t far, and the guards on the gate let him in without a second word. He works on autopilot, carrying Ashe’s body up the stairs, following the corridors around until he finds somewhere familiar. Ashe’s cries have grown very quiet indeed, the yells ceding to whimpers, and then to nothing at all.

His eyes flutter shut.

Heart racing, Caspar lies Ashe down on the rug, reaching for something - anything - to try and stop the bleeding. “Ashe,” Caspar calls, slapping him around the face to try and keep him conscious. “Hey, Ashe. Squeeze my hand, yeah? Show me you’re still here.”

There’s a slight pressure around Caspar’s palm before it falls away again. Ashe has grown weak, so weak, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it. Caspar screams for a healer, blinking back the blurriness in his vision. Ashe’s expression is twisted into a grimace of fear and pain, and the sight makes Caspar’s stomach turn.

“Hold on,” Caspar begs. “So close now. Just hold on.”

Heavy footfalls echo down the corridor, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Gonna get you fixed up,” he promises, wiping the tears away from beneath Ashe’s eyes. “Just hold on, Ashe, we got a healer coming, and they’ll fix you and then we can--”

“No.”

Caspar knows the voice coming from the doorway. His heart sinks at the sound. “Please,” he begs, staring up at his brother. “I know-- I know. But please, just-- please.”

“Why the _fuck_ is he here?” Alvard asks, face and neck stuck with shallow cuts, hair tangled with blood and broken glass. He stands back in the corridor, well away from Ashe.

“It’s over,” Caspar says, strangely hollow.

“What?”

“It’s over,” he repeats. There’s nothing but empty resignation in his voice. “We lost.”

The tension in the air finally breaks.

An explosion rocks the building, rumbling up from below. The great iron gates to the keep screech as they’re forced open, the sound running up through the stone walls. Ashe moans in pain as the shock jolts his body, and Caspar leans down to his level again. Ashe’s face is pale, his forehead clammy with sweat, and patches of fresh blood paint the corners of his mouth.

“You still with me?” Caspar asks, and Ashe’s eyes flutter open again. He jerks his head in a short nod. 

That’s all he can manage before he falls still again.

“We lost,” Alvard echoes, looking down at his brother. “Dad is gonna kill us--”

Caspar leaps to his feet. It might be too late to stop Fort Merceus from falling into Dimitri’s hands, but there’s a far more pressing issue at hand. He closes the distance between them in a second, and his brother visibly flinches as Caspar gets close.

“Please,” he begs, clutching at his brother’s breastplate. “Please, Alvard-- you’re a healer, you can fix him, you can-- you can faith magic him back to normal--”

“I can’t do shit.”

“Fix him!” Caspar screams. “What’s the point of your stupid crest and stupid faith magic if you can’t fix him?”

“Not even the archbishop could fix that,” Alvard replies dryly.

Another explosion rings out, this one louder than the first.

“He’s going to die,” Caspar pleads. “He’s going to die if you don’t help me, and he--”

A pillar of white light descends from the sky. It hits the ground outside with an explosion so loud it rattles the glass in the window, the stone shaking around them. Caspar screams as a section of the outer wall is bathed in light, then in flames.

And when the dust settles, there’s nothing left but a shell.

“We’re _all_ going to die,” Alvard realises, following Caspar’s gaze. The two brothers stare for a moment as another piece of wall is struck down by the lights in the sky, appearing only for a heartbeat and razing all in its path. 

The citadel they call home is being destroyed, piece by piece.

“No,” Caspar whispers, pressing his hands against the window. “No, no, no, they can’t-- they _can’t--_ ”

His throat closes. The words don’t come.

A hand rests on his shoulder, bigger and stronger than his own. “Well, this has been fun,” comes the sound of Alvard’s voice, dry and sardonic. “So long, baby brother.”

“Alvard--”

“Fuck this,” he adds. “Fuck you. I’m going to find my family.”

Caspar screams as his brother leaves him, as his legs buckle and he drops to the ground. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s curled up for, but eventually he looks up, allowing himself just a second more to mourn before looking over to the man laid pale and unmoving on the rug. Slowly, agonisingly, he crawls back to Ashe’s side, dragging himself across the wooden floor until he’s resting at Ashe’s shoulder.

“You won,” Caspar murmurs, staring down at Ashe. The citadel starts to break down around him, javelins of white light falling from the sky and turning everything in their path to dust. An explosion clouds the window. Glass shatters around them.

There’s no life in Ashe’s gaze. Once-vivid green eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, glassy and empty. The keep shakes again as another explosion rocks the city, and Caspar’s vision blurs as the impenetrable walls of Fort Merceus come down.

This is it. This is the end.

Caspar finally lets the tears come. The building shakes beneath him.

Quivering hands close Ashe’s eyes. That pained grimace is gone, replaced with something softer but no less serious. Now he looks like he’s asleep, nothing more.

Gentle, Caspar wipes the blood from around Ashe’s mouth and presses his head into Ashe’s chest. 

“You won,” Caspar says again. He shakes Ashe’s shoulders as if expecting him to open his eyes and leap back to his feet, but the broken body beneath him remains limp and still. Caspar’s voice breaks. He brushes the hair back from Ashe’s face, letting out something between a laugh and a sob. “You won, Ashe. Bet Dimitri’s real proud of you.”

Another explosion rocks the keep. He looks up, just for a moment, finally realising where he is. He’s in a bedroom, and not just any bedroom: there are scattered writing supplies on the desk, the air smelling faintly of metal polish. An axe is mounted on the wall, black and white fur on the cat’s favourite pillow, blue linens on the bed with the crest of Macuil embroidered in gold.

A hand-me-down from his brother.

This is the place where Caspar grew up.

It seems fitting that he’s going to die here, too.

The latest explosion is closer than the last. Keening, Caspar crouches over Ashe’s body, straightening out his coat and clasping his hands over his chest. Caspar reaches for one of the few arrows still in Ashe’s quiver, but Ashe doesn’t warrant a warrior’s death. He fought well, but it doesn’t seem right.

He’s not a warrior, not really. Ashe is - _was_ \- a gentle boy from Gaspard who got caught up in a world of nobles and false goddesses and secret wars, and paid the greatest price of all.

Terrified, the cat charges into the room, yowling and hissing. Its fur stands on end, ears flat against its head.

“Hey,” Caspar says, voice breaking. Another wave of tears fall down his cheeks, but he tries to push the feeling away. He gestures stupidly for the cat. “Hey, Mister-- come here, yeah?”

The cat pads over to Ashe’s body and stares. Caspar chokes again, reaching out a hand to try and calm the stricken animal down again. He sits the cat down, and it leaps back up, still terrified of the noises outside.

“It’s alright,” Caspar adds, stroking along the cat’s back with one hand and resting his other hand on Ashe’s chest. After a few more blurry seconds, the cat settles at Ashe’s side, rubbing its face against Ashe’s fingers. “He’s not gonna stroke you back,” Caspar warns the cat, then turns his attention back to Ashe. “Looks like Mister likes you,” he muses, the tears running freely now. He holds Ashe’s hands in his own. “Just like when we were kids.”

Another explosion. The light is blinding, burning spots into Caspar’s eyes. His ears ring. The stubborn old walls of Fort Merceus are finally torn down, bringing a hundred tonnes of stone crashing to the ground. The air is full of dust, making every breath impossible. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ anymore, but _‘when’._

The building trembles once more. The corridor outside is filled with white light and noise, the shockwave ruffling Caspar’s hair. 

It’s over. All he can do now is recite a prayer and hope the Goddess looks down kindly upon them. He touches a parting kiss to Ashe’s lips, already going cold, and lies atop the still body of the only man he’d ever loved.

Caspar von Bergliez closes his eyes.

The room is engulfed in white light.

~.*.~

Caspar is awoken by a _yowl_.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” he murmurs, raising a hand to bat away the cat’s demands for attention. Sure enough, his fingers meet soft fur, and then a paw presses against his face, impatient.

A quiet _mrow_ cuts the morning air. With a sigh, Caspar sits up and opens his eyes.

He’s lying on his back in a grassy field, the warm summer sunlight shining down against his face. The cat sits at his side, brushing its tail against his leg and silently asking for affection. Confused, Caspar rubs the sleep from his eyes, then runs a hand over his face.

Oh.

He’s got a beard, now. That’s new.

He gets to his feet slowly. The last thing he remembers is-- he’s not entirely sure. He was standing up on the walls of Fort Merceus and watching the soldiers below, after that his mind is blank. Strange. Maybe he’d hit his head. Maybe it was a particularly messy night. If that was the case, he’d expect to feel half-dead under the weight of his hangover. But Caspar feels fine.

In fact, he’s never felt more alive.

The cat yowls again, and Caspar crouches down to scratch it behind the ears.

“Hey, Mister,” he coos. It purrs contentedly, moving its head in time with Caspar’s pets. The cat has _definitely_ got fatter since the last time Caspar saw it, its coat thicker and healthier. It’s obviously been eating well, that much is for sure. Probably sneaking food from the kitchens again, the thieving little scoundrel.

Wait.

_The kitchens._

Caspar looks up, trying to work out where he is. The fields stretch on down to the coast, a rugged range of mountains at his back. The grassy meadows are full of flowers, strange and beautiful.

This isn’t Bergliez. He’s not even sure it’s the Empire.

A memory returns to him, like the realisation after a heavy night of drink.

_“I love you.”_

And Ashe had felt the same.

Caspar grins to himself. Wherever he is, he’ll figure something out.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles a tune, strangely upbeat despite the circumstances. He’ll work everything out eventually. For now, he follows a trail towards the river, tempted by the sound of running water. The cat trots smugly at his side. Its tail is held high, chirping and purring as it goes.

Something draws him down to the water, and Caspar finds himself walking in the direction of the noise before he even understands what it is. Demanding, the cat yowls again, and Caspar scoops it up into his arms, carrying it as he walks. It isn’t far, and soon he realises why he was drawn to the water’s edge.

There’s a fishing rod set up at the riverbank, line already submerged. The bait bucket is empty, but the cat still struggles to be let down, and Caspar obliges. He laughs as it sticks its head inside the bucket, looking for food, then sends him an unimpressed look when it realises there’s no fish to be had.

It yowls in disappointment, and Caspar can’t help but laugh. “Greedy fool,” he says with a shake of the head, picking the cat up again and kissing its head. It struggles against him, but his breastplate catches the worst of the damage. “We’ll catch you something, yeah? Get you a nice big fish for lunch, yes we will, because you’re a good cat, aren’t you Mister, hm? Hm? You want a fishy? Do you? Do--”

“Caspar?”

He almost drops the cat.

His knees tremble as he lets the cat down again, then turns back to the source of the voice. It’s a little different to how he remembers, a little deeper, a little more assured.

Caspar takes one look at Ashe and he understands.

Ashe’s hair is different. That’s the first thing Caspar sees, that and the fine blue coat, darker than the ratty old one he wore all throughout the war. His freckles aren’t as pronounced, even in the midsummer sun, and Caspar swears he’s grown another few centimetres.

It’s not Ashe as Caspar knows him. It’s the man Ashe would have become.

The breeze blows with it the scent of freshly-cut grass and longbow wax.

The grin breaks across Caspar’s face before he realises how stupid he looks. He charges over to Ashe, picking him up and spinning him around and around and around. Their laughter fills the air, giddy and relieved, and finally Caspar puts Ashe down again, resting his forearms against Ashe’s shoulders.

“You didn’t have to find me so soon,” Ashe murmurs, cupping Caspar’s cheeks in his hands. “I would have waited for you.”

Caspar laughs to himself. He places his arms around Ashe’s waist, pulling him close. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t gonna let you get away so easy.”

He squeezes Ashe tightly, holding on with everything he has. Behind them, the river murmurs quietly as it flows down towards the sea, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair and bringing with it the scent of flower blossoms.

“Where are we?” Caspar asks, looking over the unfamiliar landscape. Mountains at his back, hardy trees he doesn’t recognise, and a long trail stretching down to a bay of white sand and a clear blue sea.

“Duscur,” Ashe replies quietly. “I think we’re in Duscur.”

They stand and look over the land for a few minutes more. The cat nudges at Ashe’s leg, still yowling for attention, and it’s Ashe that picks it up this time.

“Mister?” he asks, and Caspar just nods. “Good to meet you.”

All he gets is a hungry-sounding _‘mrow’_ in reply.

Caspar grins. He slips his hand into Ashe’s free one, squeezing gently in reassurance. Whatever happened to them, it’s in the past, and now they have the rest of their lives to live out what could have been.

“Thank you for waiting,” Caspar says quietly, and Ashe shuts him up with a squeeze of the hand. He leans in, touching his face to Caspar’s and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

Ashe’s eyes are just as bright as ever. “I knew you’d find your way back to me,” he murmurs. The cat purrs in his arms, his cheeks are tinted pink, and his smile is wide and giddy and full of hope. “Welcome home, Caspar.”

He leans in for another kiss, and this time Caspar replies in kind.

The sun shines high above the green fields of Duscur, the waves rolling into the shore below.


End file.
